


In for a penny, in for a pound

by XCuteAsHale



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Author does not speak Lithuanian but Google does, Baby faced Will Graham, FBI agent Will Graham, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lithuanian Mafia, M/M, Mob boss Hannibal Lecter, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Will Graham, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Harassment, Slight Kink Shaming, Ta meg på alt - bare ikke på ordet, Undercover Will Graham, Will Graham Needs a Hug, Young Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCuteAsHale/pseuds/XCuteAsHale
Summary: "The mission is simple, we need someone to go undercover and get into Lecter's crew. We need you to find an in and work yourself up the ladder. We've received information that there's a war coming in between Lecter and the Bratva, and I don't think I have to tell you that if that happens there's no containing all the casualties that will be the result, do I?"--When special agent Jack Crawford says jump, all Will Graham can do is ask how high. When he says "go infiltrate the Lithuanian mob without proper mission perimeter, or a proper way into the family", well, all Will Graham can do is try and keep his head above water.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> To my most beloved Minsin.  
> A late birthday gift, not completely finished, but still good. I hope.  
> Masse masse glad i deg.

Will prided himself in being able to pick up the mood of the room within a tenth of a millisecond of entering it, prided himself in being the best profiler the FBI had seen in decades, prided himself in never getting caught unaware by a turn of someone’s mood - so really, he should have seen this coming. He should have seen the way Special Agent Jack Crawford’s brows drew together, the way he had dark bags underneath his eyes attesting to his lack of sleep - and thus overconsumption of caffeine - and the way his body tensed. He should have seen it coming in the way the senior agent, his commanding officer, turned slowly towards him as if giving Will ample time to rethink his words. Special Agent William Graham should have noticed. The fact that he didn’t he blamed on the mission file currently lying on the table in front of him. 

 

“What. Did. You. Say.” Jack Crawford bit out.

 

“I said no, I’m not doing it, Jack,” Will looked up then, eyes stopping at Jack’s cheekbone, “I’m not signing up for a suicide mission.”

 

It appeared that the temperature in the room had dropped by fifteen degrees since he sat down in a uncomfortably deep office chair, since the file labeled “Sensitive information - Need to know only” had been placed in front of him, since he’d been informed of the newest mission Jack wanted to send him into head first. When he opened the file he was greeted by a picture of Mr. Hannibal Lecter, age 45, Lithuanian origins, suspected and semi-confirmed leader of the Brolybė - the Lithuanian mob. 

 

There was no doubt in his mind what Crawford wanted to ask, what he wanted to assign Will to, what he would  _ demand _ . It wasn't a secret that Jack Crawford had a special hatred towards Hannibal Lecter, and despite no one being certain where the hatred found it's motivation besides the usual wish to bring criminals to justice, everyone who joined the FBI would at some point learn about it. Will had learned it during his first mission.

 

He'd been barely 18 at the time, and his youthful looks had been the deciding factor that he should be the one to for once play the prostitute, and not the John, during what should have been a routine mission. Or, during what he was told was a routine mission. He hadn't been told until after the mission had been handled that they were looking for a particular John with a particular interest in young boys at the ends of their ropes, that they had chosen Will in the hopes that they could lure the man out. When he'd brought it up to Jack, shaking with rage and hurt, the older man had looked at him with cold eyes, had told him that he should never take someone else's information for granted, always double check, always do his own search. Jack had yelled, had talked about how Will should be happy that he had someone to look out for him, that he should be glad that he hadn't been brought to go undercover for Lecter's crew - because God only knew that there was no saving you then.

 

Will had remembered that time, that conversation, and he knew without doubt that Jack did too. And yet. And yet here they sat, with surveillance photos with questionable quality of Lecter catching on Will's peripheral vision, and Jack wanted to send him in.

 

"I'm not quite sure I heard you right," Jack said, body unnaturally still, "Because it sounded for a second there like you wanted to go against a direct order."

 

"Jack, you know as well as I do that no one has ever gotten alive out from under Lecter's nose, hell, no one has even been able to get close enough for it to matter anyway!" Will knew he sounded hysterical, could see the way the senior agent took in his body language, but he couldn't stop himself.

 

"Jack, if I may," Special agent Beverly Katz intoned, "Graham is still a  _ kid _ , he's not experienced enough to handle being undercover for that long, let alone at that degree."

 

Will had forgotten that she was even in the room, to focused on Crawford, on the file in front of him, too lost in the memories of a case long ago.

 

"I'm not a kid." Will grumbled.

 

The two senior agents ignored him.

 

"If you could both  _ shut the hell up and sit down _ ," Jack's voice rose on the last words, his body slowly raising from his chair, the vein in his forehead throbbing dangerously, "and let me lay out this god damn mission before you start shooting it down."

 

He stared them both down, and Will tried (and failed) not to cower beneath the stare, and only when they both nodded did Crawford sit back down, fold his hands in front of him and look at Will with a tired sigh.

 

"The mission is simple, we need someone to go undercover and get into Lecter's crew. We need you to find an in and work yourself up the ladder. We've received information that there's a war coming in between Lecter and the Bratva, and I don't think I have to tell you that if that happens there's no containing all the casualties that will be the result, do I?" Jack didn't give any of them a chance to answer, "The mission will entail you being completely undercover, Will. There will be no contact between you or your handler, whom will be me, unless you have a feeling that anyone is on to you. We'll set you up in a new apartment and erase all traces of you with the FBI, we'll set up a small saving account for you and we'll give you a new identity, but you will be completely on your own."

 

Will stared at his mentor, the man who had taken him underneath his wing when Will was nothing more than a loudmouthed 18 year old, just out of the academy and cocky to a fault. He knew he should say no, that he should refuse, that he should leave his badge on the table if it came to that. This  _ was _ stupid, it  _ was _ a suicide mission, and they all knew it - they all knew that Jack was throwing Will to the wolves. He knew he should say no, but in the end, there wasn't really a question when it came down to it.

 

"I'll do it. On one condition," Will said, ignoring the way Agent Katz' eyes bulged and Jack's pleased smile, "I want to keep my name, my real name, because we all know that there is no more after this. Even if I should by some miracle survived not only being undercover within the Brolybė  _ and _ testifying at the trial, there wouldn't be any way for me to continue my work with the FBI. I want to keep my name, because if I survive this, I'm gonna be put in witness protection and then I won't ever hear it again."

 

That was that, in the end. There was no more arguments from Jack, and even after listening to Beverly's ranting and swearing for forty five minutes he still hadn't changed his mind - so he signed the paperwork. That day he left the office after receiving a pat on the back from people he'd barely talked with during the four years he'd been working with the FBI, a hug from Katz where they both ignored that his shirt was damp at the collar and her hair felt wet when they parted, and a nod from Jack. He would receive the address of his new apartment tomorrow alongside with the information for the bank account they'd set up for him. There wasn't much for him to pack up, just a box of clothes that he'd bring with him (he'd leave all his suits behind), and another two boxes filled with his books and some small trinkets he'd collected over the years.

 

....

 

The new apartment was tiny, a barely there shoe box with thin walls without proper insulation, creaky floors and a bedroom that would barely fit a twin bed. Will instantly loved it. The landlord was an elderly man with a broken english accent and clear eyes, barely tall enough to reach Will's shoulders due to his hunched back, and with an unmistakable mustache gracing his upper lip. He told Will that the rent was due on the 16th of every month, no exception, there were no pets allowed, and that if he had any noise complaints in regards to the other tenants, he should either keep them to himself or he could try taking them up with said tenants.

 

It barely took him two hours to get settled in and to check to see what the bureau had left as a parting gift in his bank account. 3000$. By the time the deposit for the apartment and the first rent's worth was paid he was left with 1400$ to buy new furniture and groceries. It took him a while to find a second hand shop that would be willing to help move the heavier furniture as the twin bed and couch he bought, as well as a small coffee table, and by the time he got back into his new home Will was too exhausted to think of how to even consider how to infiltrate the Lithuanian mob family. Or, a seemingly more pressing concern, how to produce a steady income to keep his newfound home.

 

Waking up the next day Will made a game plan. If Jack refused to give him a mission perimeter, he would give himself one.

 

Step one, buy a coffee maker.

Step two, find a job.

Step three, find someone - anyone - connected to Lecter's crew and find a way in.

 

Before dinnertime that day he'd bought a cheap coffee maker at some garage sale intended to fund some school class' expedition trip to the zoo, and he found a job waiting tables and cleaning up at The Archangel, a small scale Jazz club only ten blocks from his apartment. The manager, Tina Thompson, had taken one look at him and smirked.

 

"So, which is it, looking for a job or looking for a beau?" She asked.

 

She was pretty, with her hair styled in an auburn bob, she was a tall woman, and the black suit pants and vest she wore didn't do anything to hide that. Neither did the 7inch high heeled pumps either. At Will's blank face she just laughed.

 

"You're either here for a job or a lover, and with the way you're looking, I'd put money on the first one."

 

"A job, if you have one," Will said, looking at her cheek and noting how the faint blush accommodated the tan of her skin, "I'm willing to do anything, and I'm a hard worker."

 

"Oh man, they're gonna eat you alive, kitten."

 

....

 

He started working that night, arriving at The Archangel at 7pm sharp, he was handed a pair of black slacks and a black vest matching the one that Tina wore. The clothes were a bit too snug on him, but before he was even able to voice a question to Tina he was informed that if he was able to last a week she'd treat him to a fitting uniform. He didn't tell her that he was accustomed to clothes that didn't fit - growing up living from hand to mouth had taught him how to take pleasure in the small things. Like the fact that he 

_ did _ have clothes.

 

By the first hour into his first shift Will wondered how the FBI, or any other law enforcement agency for that matter, didn't simply recruit waiters. Despite having learned at an early age never to look down on anyone over what job they had, or didn't have, Will had severely underestimated the upper body strength required to carry a tray with drinks to and from tables.  And the amount of patience required when faced with people repeatedly pinching your butt.

 

By the end of the night he'd somehow gotten into some strange friendship and companionship with Dalia Derus, a slightly terrifying 24 year old Lithuanian woman with platinum blonde hair and near black eyes, who worked the VIP-tables and the bar of The Archangel. Dalia had warned him when a group of middle aged women sat down by one of his tables, told him to make sure he never turned his back on them whilst being within reaching distance - lest he'd discover bruises on his butt and the back of his thighs in the morning. After the last guests left for the night, Will found himself leaning against the bar, trading life stories with Dalia, receiving a shot of Russian vodka every time she felt pity for him. Tina came up to them after the fourth shot and told them to take it easy - until Dalia told her about their little game, and she wanted to join in. Will got five shots simply by talking about his experience with high school.

 

Lying in his bed that night, Will stared up onto the spinning ceiling, and allowed himself to forget that he was supposed to be on an undercover assignment, that his death would surely come soon and be painful, and he simply allowed himself to feel some sort of joy of being part of a community. Even if that community was simply brought together by sexually inappropriate soccer moms, bad high school experiences, and Russian vodka.

 

....

 

As the weeks passed by Will settled into some sort of rhythm. He'd wake up at noon, drink his first cup of coffee standing in his underwear listening to his neighbours either trying to kill each other, or, trying to fuck each other to an inch of their lives. He was never sure which. After that he'd get dressed, and since he'd yet to splurge on clothes there weren't a huge sampling to take from (much to Dalia and Tina's grief), before he grabbed his keys and wallet and walked out of his apartment. He'd learned to recognize the people living on his block, and those surrounding him, and he'd even found a small convenience shop where he could by food and other utensils. With how the money the bureau had left him had dried up despite Will's desperate attempts to hide some away for a rainy day, he counted his blessings that Dalia had vouched for him for the old lady, or senelė as Dalia called her, who owned and ran the shop.

 

"Saldainiukas, look at what you're wearing! Did your mother never teach you to dress for the weather?" Irma asked, throwing her hands up in exasperation, "It will snow soon and you're walking around like, like, like it's almost ready for summer snow!"

 

Will had been confused the first times it happened. At the age of 22 he had long since passed the time where it would have been appropriate for people to comment on his clothing fitting for the season, and as a child, the idea of his son being affected by the changing seasons never seemed to enter his father's mind. Still, Irma seemed to feel like she had the God given right to take upon her the role as Will's adoptive grandmother.

 

Looking down on himself he couldn't see the problem though. His jeans were clean, a bit faded from the wash, sure, but useable. His converse were a bit worn, but that was apparently the fashion these days, and besides, there were no holes in the soles. He was even wearing a black hoodie over his t-shirt. It might not keep the november chill completely at bay, but it was more than enough for a quick trip to the store to get supplies.

 

"I'm sorry?" Will said, looking at Irma's hands, "I don't expect that there will be snow until later tonight."

 

Irma looked at him with a stern expression on her face, and lifted a can of tomato soup to point it at him.

 

"The weather is no joke, saldainiukas. Hypothermia is very dangerous. My cousin lost two fingers back in '59 during the winter back home-"

 

Her no doubt long and well rehearsed rant was cut short by the small bell over the door ringing, and a middle aged woman walked in with two children. After a quick nod towards the newcomers, Will took the opportunity for what it was, and scurried away to find the food he needed.

 

"Maria, how wonderful to see you, how is Tommy doing?"

 

Irma's voice followed him as he walked between the isles, and he payed half an ears worth of attention to the conversation as he tracked down pasta, tomatoes, bread and toilet paper. The idle chatter between the two women and the snickers and whispers of the children gave the small store a layer of warmth that Will found himself unaccustomed to. Growing up in a small town was often portrayed as the same as growing up with a tight knit community ready to help you and to catch you should you ever tremble, but in Will's experience wasn't even close to that. Growing up in a small town meant that everyone knew who he was, who his father was, it meant that no matter where he went he was subjected to the scrutiny that only a sheriff's son, or maybe a preacher's child, could ever experience. Everyone seemed to hold him to the standard they expected from his father, and they seemed to take their clues as in how to handle him from the older man.

 

Sheriff Marcus John Graham was a strict man. He had been born into a born-again christian family, and whilst he himself didn't lead the same straight religious life his parents had before him, he never did forget the fact that he owed life to his lord and savior, Christ almighty. He had met Will's mother one fateful monday afternoon, and three months later they were married - a shotgun wedding that Marcus Graham would never forgive his son for. When Will's mother passed when the boy was only at the tender age of five, Marcus Graham knew that it was God sending out his punishment for the life they had created outside of the holy wedlock, and if God were to send out his punishment for them giving Will life, Marcus would send out his own punishment to Will for accepting it. Will grew up with faint memories of a mother long gone, and a father too far into his bottle of whiskey to ever wonder how come he was the only one in class who didn't get a note in his lunchbox. Or who didn't get a lunchbox at all.

 

Shaking his head, Will tried to shield away from the pictures of a little boy wearing too thin clothes during the cold winter nights, and focused on his shopping. Throwing in a box of earl gray tea, he started making his way back towards the registre, where Irma was still talking with the lady. Looking at her children, Will remembered that they lived two blocks away from him. The two boys always looked happy, despite complaining when their mother called their names from the balcony, reminding them that if they wanted the ability to sit comfortably, they would come in and put on their jackets.

 

"Now you go on home and put on some more clothes, saldainiukas, before you freeze to death." Irma said as she accepted his money.

 

"Yes, ma'am." he murmured, taking the bags in one hand, and started making his way back to his apartment.

 

When he closed the door behind him, he barely remembered the walk home. Jack Crawford had sent him on a mission to find and bring down Hannibal Lecter, but so far, all that Will had done was start etching his way into the community surrounding him. Packing away his groceries and brewing a cup of tea, Will sat down and tried to remember if there were any known locations where Lecter's crew might be found.

 

He was sent on a mission, after all. Not to find a new life. Or to dwell in the pains of his old one.

 

...

 

When 7pm rolled around and he stood in the backroom of the Archangel pulling his uniform on, Dalia and Tina both joined him for an impromptu staff meeting ("No, we don't need all the staff. Think of it more as a waiter-staff meeting.") and Will tried to figure out if this was normal within the service industry or if this was simply a strictly Archangel thing. Figuring out how to wiggle out if his jeans and into the black suit pants without accidently giving his company the unfortunate view of his scrawny legs proved to be more difficult than he imagined, and he tried to not allow the catcalls and snickers to get to him, and he could feel the back of his neck heat up with a blush as he fastened his belt.

 

"Is there a reason why the two of you are in here while I'm changing or is it simply to because you're curious about how far it'll go before I have an aneurysm?" he asked, looking between Dalia's lips and Tina's right cheekbone.

 

"Of course there is," Dalia said, her accent thick over the words, "the possible aneurysm is simply a perk."

 

"We have a special VIP-guest today, and whilst I know that you and Dalia tend to ignore the fact that the VIP area is supposed to be restricted, even when it comes to the staff, and usually that is completely okay," Tina took a second to breathe, and Will realized how stressed she seemed to be. He wondered how he'd missed the signs, her hands slightly trembling, her lips swollen from the continued biting. "He's one of our best customers, and he's just returned to the city, and he is  _ not _ accustomed to the lack of professionality that we've apparently dropped to. Dalia will remain in the VIP area, attending to our guests, and I need you to deal with the regular tables, Will."

 

"Wait, you need me to take all the regular tables?" Will asked, mentally going through the statistics he'd calculated on the amount of guests on each day only to arrive at an alarmingly high number, "What happened to Tommy? I thought he was supposed to work tonight?"

 

Tina sighed quietly, looking up at him from underneath his lashes, and Will had to restrain himself from pointing out that with how he only saw her eyes from his peripheral vision the act itself was nearly pointless, but the underlying tension in her body stopped his continued questions before he could voice them.

 

"Yes, I need you to take all the tables. Look, Will, I know that you're still pretty fresh and I know that it'll be a hell of a lot more work than what you signed up to, but Tommy called in sick today and I have no other options," Tina said, "I'm really sorry for putting you in this situation, but I need to know if I can rely on you. Please."

 

"Okay."

 

"Okay?" Tina looked at him like she wanted to kiss him, and Will took a hasty step backwards, wringing his fingers in his sweater. "Okay." he repeated.

 

With the course of action set before them the ladies left the room and allowed him to finish getting ready in peace. His uniform didn't require much effort, black suit pants, black shirt and a black vest and tie on top. It wasn't much different from the uniform of his fellow brothers and sisters in blue, though Will himself had never donned the colors. He didn't change his top in front of the two women, a habit long since integrated in his brain put there by harsh words from his father's drunken mouth, enforced by the older man's belt buckle.

 

"Thus you are to know in your heart that the Lord your God was disciplining you just as a man disciplines his son." Deuteronomy 8:5. His father taught Will that verse, amongst many others, between the lashes of his tongue and belt. God dealt out his punishment to Will, using his father as a tool in doing such, and long since Will himself had learned to accept the penance that God surely would grant him if he existed, the scars Marcus Graham left on his son stayed on his back, like the stars, telling the path once taken.

 

Will's face was grim when he finally stepped out from the backroom and into the club. It seemed like despite the good upturn of people there requiring his attention, his father would refuse to leave his mind, and the man stayed within Will's mind as he ran his legs out from himself fetching drinks and carrying ashtrays. The melodic jazz tunes of the evening seemed particularly blue and it made Will wonder if he was doomed to be followed by his father's ghost until the day he died. It was nearly at the end of his shift when he finally realized that the itchy feeling on the back of his neck was the feeling of eyes on him. Discreetly taking in the crowds, he realized that the gaze didn't come from the regular guests that he catered to - despite the fact that the group of middleaged soccer mom's firmly into their second bottle of chardonnay continued to send him leering stares - and that it in fact came from the VIP-area.

 

He couldn't properly see who the person looking at him was, the VIP-area raised slightly from the rest of the club and scarcely lit, but he  _ knew _ that that was the origin of the feeling. He felt like he was being stalked, like prey, and surprisingly enough he wasn't quite sure how exactly he felt about that. A small part of him was simply happy about getting a rest from the attention fixated on him by the mothers, but another part was worried - what could a VIP guest be interested in him for anyway? Was there a possibility that he'd been made, that they knew that he was with the FBI?

 

Will drew his focus back towards his own tables. 23 guests had been seated by his tables this evening, and it appeared that if he stopped for as much as a second, he would fall behind on the mountain of drink orders and requests for the bill. Taking a second more to simply breathe deeply, he hoped to at least get some decent tips out of the evening. Gods knew that the soccer moms had all pinched his butt and the back of his upper thighs enough that he felt he was owed a fortune. Counting to ten in his mind, Will took a deep breath before he walked back into the lion's den; a batchulette party.

 

….

 

By the time his shift ended that night, Will was absolutely sure that his thighs and backside was covered in bruises, and that he’d worn holes in his shoes. Leaning heavily on the bar he tried in vain to gain the sympathy of Tina so that she’d let him simply lay down underneath the counter and sleep there - and not be forced to walk back to his apartment. Whoever it was that decided the workout routine for the academy should take a look on the physical endurance, let alone the patience to not commit a violent act, that the service professions required.

 

“Toughen up, sugar,” Tina said, looking unrealistically refreshed as she dried the last glasses from that night’s dishes. “Count your tip for the night and see if that doesn’t spike some energy in you.”

 

“Ugh, don’t even. I swear, I have never felt this violated before. I feel like all they saw when they looked at me was a piece of meat,” Will groaned, “And don’t even start with me about how that’s what it’s like being a woman. Dalia already did that earlier.”

 

“It’s truuuue!” Dalia singsang in a silly voice. She was seated on the bat counter with her legs crossed and her head almost completely buried in the tip jar, “But let’s be fair, with that baby face of yours it’s natural for people to get it wrong - Hey, Tina, do you have the change for a 50 back there? - it doesn’t make it right, but it’s the way it works.”

 

He dropped his head on the bar counter and groaned once more, trying his best to ignore Tina’s chuckles. Maybe he should grow out his beard? It wouldn’t necessarily hide the innocence his face seemed to convey, but it would go along way in helping.

 

“Hey, Will, someone left you a note in the tip jar,” Dalia said, holding said note over her head. Raising his head to look at her, Will met her grin with a quizzical gaze.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, I think it’s for you,” She leaned towards him, holding the note out in her hand, “It doesn’t say your name or anything, but it  _ does _ say berniukas, and you’re the only berniukas here.” 

 

Taking the note from her Will tried to ignore the trepidation in his head. Was this a threat? Was it someone from the bureau? Opening the note, his adrenaline kicked in, and Will could feel his focus honing in on it, dropping the chatter and inquisitive questions the two women shot at him. When he finally managed to see the message left behind for him, he had more questions than he did when it was first left in his hand.

 

_ “Next time; break their hands. H.L.” _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Y'all.** The feedback this fic has gotten is completely beyond what I could ever imagine, and I would like to take a second to just thank you all. Seriously. I love you and I get misty eyed from reading through these comments! Y'all are amazing!  <3   
>  Second; To _"Hannibal Lecter"_ , I know you felt like this fic contained too much OC's and too little Hannibal Lecter so here's a chapter filled with OC's and no Hannibal Lecter. :)))))
> 
> **Third: This chapter contains implied sexual abuse as a child. There are no details and no discussion of it.**
> 
> ****
> 
> My beloved Dena helped me with providing her astonishing beta services today, however, I am highly impatient and I wanted to post this chapter _now_. So any and all faults and wrong words are on my cape alone. Dena, I love you.
> 
> ****

Will had tried figuring out who the note was from, had walked across the panel floors of his apartment so many times he was kinda surprised that there wasn't a hole there yet, had wrinkled the piece of paper and unwrinkled it so many times that he worried it might fall apart. The idea that it was simply someone offering a friendly piece of advice had crossed his mind, but he'd soon discarded it - your average Joe didn't exactly leave notes recommending physical assault for people they'd never talked to in a tip jar. He considered the possibility that Jack Crawford had decided to put a tail on him, at least for the time being, and that the poor agent felt sorry enough for him. He even considered the possibility that someone had made him, and that particular idea nearly caused him to quit his job and simply stay in his apartment. That plan had quickly been sabotaged by Dalia who, for some God forsaken reason, had decided that despite him being a fully capable adult, she should adopt him as a kind of little brother. She'd generously given him a full ten hour sleep after their shift before she came to pick him up, dragging him to a small blink-and-you'll-miss-it restaurant, ordering them the best cheeseburger and fries Will had ever tasted. He figured that the threat of having been made by some kind of criminal wouldn't be the worst fate in the world - not if he managed to convince Dalia to bring him back sometime.

 

The weeks passed, and as the weather continued to chill, the note continued to exist as a small mystery in the Archangel. Despite, or maybe even because of, that there hadn't been any repeat occurrences. Will tried not to focus too much on it, his attention pulled taught between settling into the routine his new life required, and the slight panic that almost a month after he went undercover, he  _ still _ didn't have a way in with Lecter's crew. And while he wanted to focus all his energy and thought into fixing that problem, he found himself reluctant to give anything less than a hundred percent at the Archangel, especially as November had rolled into December, and Tina seemed to put all the focus into themed nights. Will ran his legs off every afternoon and evening trying to remember if that night was  _ "Lady's night" _ or  _ "Blue Love night" _ or something called  _ "naktį mėgėjams" _ which seemed to draw every single couple between the ages of 21 and 87. After a memorable situation where an elderly lady had taken insult to Will's behavior towards her husband, and started shouting at him in rapid lithuanian, Dalia had explained the meaning behind  _ naktį mėgėjams _ (night of lovers), and how the old crow had believed Will to try and draw her husband’s attention away from her. Apparently one didn't come between a couple and expect to live, and especially not on the night that the Archangel dedicated to love.

 

"You are like a, shit, what's the word, little dog?" Dalia said, looking at him sympathetically when they closed the doors behind the last of the lovers night’s visitors, "Always looking to please and so innocent."

 

Will sputtered.

 

"First of all, I think the word you're looking for is  _ puppy _ , and second, I'm not looking to please anyone, let alone  _ you _ ," Will said, standing behind the bar, looking over the list of inventory that they would have to order, "and even if I  _ were _ looking to please anyone, you're too young for me, babe." Winking in Dalia's general direction, he figured that the offered information would at least be enough to grant him a couple of minutes of silence.

 

He was wrong.

 

"Too young- what, I mean,  _ blet _ , I have two more years than you!" Dalia protested, her arms flying dangereously close to his head as she gestured.

 

"Will, what have I said about damaging Dalia's head, hm?" Tina said, sneaking up behind him, hands on his hips as she passed him.

 

"Jis sakė, kad aš buvau per jauna jam! Ar manote, kad? Grubus!" Dalia half-shouted, the lithuanian rolling of her tongue in a far more familiar way than english ever did. Will was transfixed - it wasn't unusual for the girls to speak their native tongue with each other, but for some reason they found it rude to do so in front of him, and despite Will's many objections, or his pleadings, he rarely got to hear them speak so freely. He could see Dalia smirk from the corner of his eyes,and he wondered silently just  _ what _ she'd told the other woman.

 

"So, mommy kink or daddy kink, kūdikis?" Tina said, a hand reaching out to grab his hip once more. Will wasn't quite sure what had happened.

 

"W-what?" He sputtered, realizing that the hint of information had come back to bite him in the ass, a blush trailing its way hotly over his neck and the tips of his ears, contradiction the ice taking over his veins,  "what are you talking about?"

 

"I mean, since Dalia is too young for you..." Tina let her words trail off in a hinting manner, and Will felt his blush intensify.

 

"Every time you call your boyfriend 'Daddy' Sigmund Freud's ghost gains strength!" he croaked. "Just because someone has a taste for a more experienced lover doesn't mean that they have need to bring in thoughts of their parents to the act!" He brushed Tina's hand off his hip, taking a sharp step to the left, re-focusing his attention to the list.

 

"Damn," Dalia said softly, "sorry if we hit a nerve, Will. We were just messing around."

 

"Yeah," Tina agreed, patting his shoulder once, twice, three times, before backing off.

 

Will knew it wasn't their fault, that they couldn't have known, that they hopefully still  _ didn't _ know, how Sheriff Graham had done his best to teach Will how to be  _ Daddy's good little boy _ , how soft hands and pettings clashed with hard fists and harsh words. Shaking his head softly, Will tried to dislodge the memories threatening to drown him.

 

"It's okay," Will said, noting down an order for four bottles of Jack Daniels.

 

...

 

Settling into a routine was strangely easy. Like his brain had suddenly decided to forgo all it's earlier experiences, forget every instinct he had, and start relying on the people and life surrounding him. He started to expect Mrs. Moris, an eighty-seven year old lady who came in every Wednesday evening at eight, wearing her finest fur coat, ordering a simple whiskey and enjoying the music before leaving at eleven pm sharp, never saying a word more than needed. He started to expect the group of barely legal girls, always dressed to impress in their short skirts and low cut tops, who came in every Friday night only to get uncontrollably drunk, grabbing his ass and posting selfies to their instagram feeds. He started to expect the soccer moms who all came in during the afternoons, during the beginning of his shifts, ordering wine and sneakingly trying to grab his ass, his thighs, and, on one memorable occasion, his dick. He grew accustomed to the chilliness of his apartment, of always needing to wear the woolen socks that Irma knitted and forced on him. But however hard he tried, he couldn't get used to the notes that seemed to magically show up in the tip jar, three more having appeared since the first.

 

_ "She does not need that hand, would you like me to remove it for her? H.L." _

 

The second note arrived after one of the moms, Denise, had overpassed her two-glass limit of white wine, and tried shoving her hand down the front of his pants, not taking his no for an answer, requiring both Dalia and Tina to interfere. Will had felt a strange sense of warmth in his chest after reading it, though he would deny it to his dying day.

 

_ "Aristotle said, Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy. H.L." _

 

The third note came the night where he'd had an argument with his neighbour, something petty, just a reason for him to move on the  _ rage _ building inside him, the frustration with not finding an in, with disappointing Jack. He'd let his ire out on Dalia and Tina, snapping at the them, being crude and surrounded by the black cloud hanging over his head. Reading the note forced him to take a step back, and he ended up apologizing to them. Tina laughed and said that the notes seemed to be working for him., and that whoever this H.L. was, they better not stop.

 

_ "I care. H.L." _

 

The fourth note wrapped itself around his heart like english ivy, coming on a day where Will's ghosts seemed to try to conspire to overturn him, dragging him under, making him wonder if the world wouldn't be better off without him. Surely Jack could find another agent, someone more capable, someone who would find another in with the lithuanian mob, someone who would do it  _ right _ . He hadn't realized that he was that transparent, that people could see right through him. But maybe H.L. had simply seen one of those moments that Will had tried to keep to himself, those few seconds he'd allow himself to push his fingernails into his wrists, leaving angry half-moon shapes behind.

 

He wasn't expecting the notes, perhaps by some strange form of self-preservation, not wanting to get his hopes up, only to be disappointed once more. By the end of his shift on december 28th, Will was ready to throw in the towel, to simply lay down and let Jack know that he couldn't do this, he wouldn't be able to find a way in, to fix it, that ack had been wrong in assuming that Will was good for anything. Until. Until a gorgeous lady with wild red curls falling down her back like a waterfall entered the club, wearing a sleek black dress and blood red high heals, an equally gorgeous brunette with a kind face wearing a dark pantsuit on her arm. He knew who they were before they sat down at his table, knew them  _ intimately _ , had studied them both at the academy and when he prepped for the case. Freddie Lounds and Alana Bloom. Master spy and second in command in the Brolybė.

 

Walking towards them Will tried to swallow against his suddenly dry throat.

 

"What can I do for you, ladies?" he asked.

 

"Whiskey, neat. For the both of us," Lounds said, a smirk gracing her lips, "and before you ask, I prefer my whiskey like I like my men, twice my age and from Scotland."

 

Will nodded, and turned on his heels. Ducking behind the bar, he reached up and grabbed a bottle of 60-year-old Glenfarclas, one of their finest bottles, hoping that it would be to Lounds' standards. Walking back towards the two women, Will's attention was drawn between trying not to fall on his ass like a toddler and spill two glasses of a 18 thousand dollar whiskey, and coming up with an idea on how to befriend the pair. The thought made a jab of insecurity make it’s presence known in his stomach - Will had never been good at making friends. The walk ended way to so, and before he knew it, he was placing the glasses on the table, watching Lounds bring it to her lips and taking a careful sip before humming.

 

"Good choice, kid," she said, barely looking up at him.

Alana Bloom lifted her glass, mimicking her companion, before humming in agreement, "Yes, though I somehow doubt you would have disappointed."

 

Will wasn't quite sure what had happened, nor what it meant, but as he walked over to  _ the soccer mom table _ , he felt a skip in his step that hadn't been there in a while. Maybe there was hope after all.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations on the Lithuanian courtesy of Google translate:
> 
> blet - fuck  
> "Jis sakė, kad aš buvau per jauna jam! Ar manote, kad? Grubus!" - "He said I was too young for him! Can you believe that? Rude!"  
> kūdikis - baby


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long wait! Would you believe me if I said that time ran away from me?
> 
> Warnings for this chapter includes alcoholism, child-abuse (not too detailed) and alcohol as a coping mechanism. 
> 
> This chapter is NOT beta-read, so please; If you see something, say something - but please say so kindly.

Losing himself in the rhythm of his new life and new friendships was easier than Will would ever deem possible, too easy perhaps, but as every instinct in his body screamed at him to ease back, to remember that they would soon leave, that he would soon leave, his heart refused to go back to being that lonely little boy looking in n the other children playing. Instead he found himself clutching to the friendship Tina and Dalia offered, and eventually even the steady pleasantries exchanged with the people living in his neighborhood. He knew it was strange, that this wouldn't last and that he was setting himself up for more heartbreak than needed, that if Jack could see him now he would rip Will a new one for forgetting his  _ actual _ job, for taking his eyes off the prize.

 

He knew the moment he agreed to sign up for this task that his life would never be the same. He knew that he was agreeing to forgo all his traditions, to abandon those few friends he had, to abandon his family, never to see any of them again. He knew this. And yet. And yet when Tina explained that the Archangel would be closed for New Year’s Eve, consequently forcing him to ring in the New Year alone, he was struck by the knowledge that he would be, for the first time in months, alone. Tina and Dalia were both celebrating with their respective families, and despite their invitations, Will knew that he shouldn’t force himself further into their personal lives than he already was. The holidays were for family, after all, and one thing Will had learned through his life, it was that family wasn’t an open solution – there were no room for strangers.

Waving away their concerns, Will braced himself for the tang of loneliness he was sure to come. He was no stranger to solitude, would even often choose it willingly before, forgoing the chance to go out for a Friday night drink with his fellow students at the academy to spend time alone with his books. He thought that was what he wanted – and some part of him even celebrated the fact that he wasn’t dependent on the confirmation of his fellow men, but as the last of the patrons of the Archangel walked through the doors the night before New Year, Will realized, that there was a significant difference between solitude by choice, and that by force.

 

A small note was left in the tip jar for him, and the pang of gratitude and joy that he felt at the sight of it was smothered when he noticed the difference in the hand writing. Whoever left this note, it was not the mysterious H.L.

 

_ Happy New Year’s, dear. Thank you for the old; and we’ll say welcome to the new. – A friend. _

 

The writing on the note was smaller, neater, than he was used to. Clearly written by a woman’s hand, but when he showed it to Tina and Dalia, neither recognized it, and Will couldn’t see any signs of deception in their faces. Tucking the note into his pocket, he wondered if it was a collective choice people here had not to talk to people to their faces, or if he was simply the exception to the rule.

 

…

 

As a child, the New Year was brought forth by his father’s nostalgic mood, often bringing Will close, telling him about his mother, the woman she was, wondering out loud about the women she would have been – had it not been for Will. Marcus John Graham would only bare speaking of his wife when he had a bottle of whiskey to ease the word’s way out of his mouth, and Will learned at an early age to take any and all opportunity to hide. Coming back to school he would hear stories of his classmates enjoying a special dinner with their family, how they would play with firecrackers and watch the ball drop at midnight; and when it was his turn to speak, Will could never find the words needed to explain. How did you explain that you brought forth the new year hiding inside the kitchen cupboards, praying that your father wouldn’t find you, listening to chairs shattering against walls, screams and shouts and howls of pain mixing together until there was just too much  _ noise _ . 

 

New year’s as a teenager was strangely different, and still eerily similar. After escaping his father, Will drowned himself in the attempts of finding normality; attempting to date, attempting to find friends. Unfortunately the social aspect of life didn’t seem to want to function for him, and the only relief he was given was when he breezed through high school and the academy, and when he bought the cheap, almost completely watered down version of whiskey that his father used to favor, drinking himself into black out after blackout. After all; New Year’s Eve was meant to be brought in with a big bang, wasn’t it?

 

Celebrating his first, and maybe even last, New Year Will decided to keep on to the traditions. After dressing and brushing his teeth that morning, he walked out of his apartment, content with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be returning for at least a day, and set the course for the nearest liquor store. The white blanket of snow that had overtaken the town the night before amplified the sound of his steps, leaving Will with a jittery feeling, making him look over his shoulder, as if expecting to find someone behind him - his father, agent Crawford, he couldn’t be sure.

 

The poor middle aged man standing behind the registre barely gave him a once over when Will dropped two bottles of cheap whiskey on the counter. Will barely took in his appearance, too preoccupied with the shaky feeling of  _ wrong _ that had gripped him tight from the moment he opened his eyes that morning, and when the man barked out the total of $22. Dropping the cash on the counter, Will took the bottles in shaky hands, and walked out the door.

 

The snow crunched underneath his shoes, and in some far away part of Will’s mind, he wondered if perhaps an old and beaten pair of sneakers wouldn’t be a poor choice for the seasonal weather. The cold was seeping into his bones, and by the time he reached his final destination - a small park just four blocks from his building - Will couldn’t contain the shaking and shuddering of his hands. Taking a seat on a bare spot provided by a large pine tree, Will leaned his back on the trunk, struggling to open the first bottle.

 

“Happy new year,” he muttered, words near lost with the clicking of his teeth, before taking a huge gulp. The whiskey was sour, burning the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, and Will had to fight the urge to spit it back out. “Oh well, I guess you get what you pay for.”

 

The second gulp was easier. The third even more so. And by the forth he could barely feel his mouth anyway.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there when the noise of crunching snow alerted him to someone’s incoming presence. The first bottle was gone, and in his attempts to open the second one, he’d spilled near half, causing him to venture onto his hands and knees, tears streaming down his face. That was the position he was in when a pair of dark snow boots stopped in front of him. His head snapped up too quickly, causing his stomach to convulse, and he barely had the time to make a sound before the contents of his stomach scattered across the woodland floor, barely missing the strangers shoes by mere inches. 

 

“‘m sorry,” Will mumbled, trying to wipe his mouth, only to realize that he’d failed in even lifting his hand.

 

“A bit cold to take a late evening drink outside, don’t you think?” The stranger asked, his voice deep and accented, and oh god it was pretty. “Thank you,” The stranger said, voice now filled with mirth, and  _ oh God _ he’d said that out loud.

 

“Cold.”

 

“I can imagine so, yes. You’re not dressed for this weather at all.”

 

Will finally managed to sit back on his ass, lifting his head slowly to look up at the stranger, finally seeing the face to go with the voice for the first time. He froze in his spot. Will knew that face, had spent hours upon hours studying it, had imagined seeing it in person countless times, had memorised it to the point that he could pick it out of a crowd. Hannibal Lecter. The realization made his stomach grumble, and a cold sweat broke out on Will’s skin. He’d nearly thrown up on the shooes of Hannibal Lecter. Looking up at his face now, Will didn’t see any of the murderous intent he was expecting, only a strange frown between Lecter’s brows, a miniscule thing, really. When it appeared that Will wasn’t going to say anything else, Lecter sighed before crouching down, carefully avoiding the vomit between them.

 

“I can not leave you here with a good conscience, boy. Do you have any family you should call? Anyone who is looking for you?” Lecter’s voice was quiet, his tone even, and Will wanted him to keep talking, unable to explain how his voice filled the void inside Will’s chest. Will shook his head.  _ No _ . “Alright. I’ll have to insist that we seek some warmth though; I don’t like the color of your lips.”

 

Will wondered if he should be insulted at that or not.

 

Before he could speak of the imagined insult though, Lecter stood, and walked to his side, before crouching down to aid Will in bringing his arm around his shoulder. The moment the leather clad hand got in contact with Will’s skin, he hissed, burned by the touch, and as if on cue, his body realized just  _ how _ cold he really was. The walk over to a beautiful, black Bentley Arnage was almost lost on Will, and despite knowing that he was practically forcing Lecter to take his body weight, Will couldn’t make his legs work properly. He whined when he got deposited in the passenger seat of the car, already missing the heat of Lecter’s body, and the smell of his cologne - something subtle, unrecognizable to Will, but the smell of it was warm and comforting. By the time Lecter crossed over to the other side of the car and started up the hot air circulation, Will was near exhaustion but his mind wouldn’t allow his body to rest. Lecter was a mob boss. He was Will’s target. He had murdered and tortured and threatened and stolen. He was a cruel man without a heart or a soul, a true psychopath. But he’d picked Will up from the snow. He brought Will to his car. He handed him a handkerchief when Will’s nose started running. So which one was the real one?

 

“What is your name?” Lecter asked, eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel.

 

“‘ill,” he coughed and tried again, “Will.”

 

“And how old are you, William?” 

 

“‘m 22.”

 

“And how come you were alone, in the snow, drinking whiskey on new year’s eve? Shouldn’t you be somewhere downtown with your fellow youngsters, engaging in socially ambiguous behavior?”

 

“All alone,” Will whispered, eyes dropping, his blinks getting drawn out, “The world is forgetting me, so I am all alone.”

 

By the time his body won the fight over his mind, Will wasn’t sure if he really heard the sad sigh coming from beside him, or if he really felt the hand stroking his curls. And waking up the next day, he wouldn’t remember it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally the king is here!
> 
> Please remember that comments and kudos activate my praise kink, and as always, I can be found both on tumblr and in Hell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 1.30AM here, I need to get up at 6AM, this has not been beta'ed.
> 
> Also, just so everyone knows;   
> 1\. This fic will not be abandoned without warning; It might take me forever to write this shit, but it will be written and posted.  
> 2\. English is not my first language. Please be kind and consider this.

Waking up the next morning Will knew three things:

 

One, the prohibition era was actually a good idea and not, in fact, the government trying to control it’s citizens.

 

Two, he was never drinking alcohol again.

 

And three, this was not his bed.

 

Sitting up carefully, Will braced himself for the expected tell-tail giveaway as to why he was in a stranger’s bed. When the usual soreness didn’t immediately announce it’s presence, he couldn’t help frowning to himself - a strange prickling of anxiety lodged itself in his chest. It wasn’t unusual for him to wake up on the first morning of the new year in someone else’s bed, or for him to be alone when waking up, but the thought that he’d been the one to top was. Of course, he could have spent the night with a woman, but looking around the room, Will took in the earthy browns and gold highlights the room was decorated in, as well as the leather and wood theme, which all lead to the conclusion that this was a man’s bedroom. Throwing the duvet to the side, Will was unprepared for the soreness in his arms, and for the fact that he was only in his underwear and t-shirt. Frowning to himself he threw his legs over the side, winching with the pain. He felt like he’d taken one hell of a beating, but a quick glance showed no signs of bruises or markings. As he stood, oh so carefully, the anxious feeling in his chest intensified. 

 

The hardwood floor was cold underneath his feet, and he felt a shiver run up his spine, as he took a careful survey over the room. There was two doors, the double bed with a dark, wooden frame, a dark wooden dresser, a brown leather chair and two nightstands matching the bed. There was pictures on the walls, in heavy golden frames, displaying scenes of nature like Will had never seen outside of tv before. Losing himself in the pictures, Will didn’t realize that he was shaking until the chattering of his teeth became too loud for his ears to ignore - and despite his eyes feasting on the image of a woodland spring, his body suffered the cruel fate of the Baltimore winter.  

 

Tearing his gaze from the picture, Will tried to locate his clothes, and when he couldn’t find them within the room, he cautiously opened the first door, bracing himself for dangers unknown. It went on quiet hinches, thankfully, and revealed a tastefully decorated bathroom, with white tile walls and granite sinks. Walking in slowly, Will hissed at the near scorching sensation that the heated floor tiles left in the soles of his feet. He relieved himself, and walking towards the sink to wash his hands, he couldn’t escape the thought that whoever it was that lived here, they sure had a lot of money. His bet was on old family fortune, the decor too subtle for those who found their wealth too sudden. The tempered water felt amazing over his skin, and Will stood there for several moments, simply letting it wash over him before he wiped them on a towel with a higher threadcount than his IQ. 

 

With his clothes nowhere to be found in the bathroom either, Will wandered back into the bedroom. He considered throwing all caution to the wind, to simply walk out the second door and find his way out of this house, clothes be damned, when there was a knock on the door. The lowkey humming of anxiety that had been located in his chest since he woke up skyrocketed at the sound, and Will braced himself for any kind of monster to walk through the door, as he watched the door handle slowly turn. When the door opened to reveal none other than Hannibal Lecter standing there, balancing a tray with what what smelled mouthwatering like eggs and meats and coffee, dressed in a checked suit, Will found himself revisiting the idea of being prepared for anyone. 

 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Lecter said, walking confidently into the room with an easy smile.

 

“W-where am I?” Will asked, trying to force his legs to work, to run, to take the open door as the opportunity it surely was.

 

“Oh, forgive me my rudeness,” Lecter said, placing the tray carefully on the bed, before straightening up and looking straight at Will, “my name is Hannibal Lecter, and you are in my home. I found you in the park yesterday evening, severely hypothermic and quite clearly intoxicated.”

 

When several seconds passed and Will didn’t respond, Lecter looked pointedly at the tray he had brought in, clearing his throat carefully. “A protein scramble, to help you regain your strength. And coffee, to ward off the chill.” He said. Will couldn’t help but stare at him.

 

“Where is my clothes? What happened to them?” He asked, looking at the man standing in front of him, trying to get a read on him.

 

Lecter looked at the offered food with a soft sigh, as if he was grieving it’s waste, and Will felt his muscles lock at the sound. His father had done that too, whenever Will had said or done something that warranted a reaction, as if he couldn’t grasp how Will didn’t manage to steer clear of troubles himself, how he couldn’t see the labyrinth of traps that was laid out before him, changed each day, always different, but always leading to the same painful outcome. 

 

“-in a couple of minutes, I would expect.” 

 

Lecter’s voice brought Will back from the memories, and he found himself shaking once more, though he didn’t account this to be from the chilliness of the room.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Will asked, looking at the man with what he hoped was a neutral expression.

 

Lecter frowned slightly, and made an aborted motion as to walk towards Will, only to stop when the younger man tensed.

 

“Are you alright? The mixture of the alcohol and the cold might have taken more out of you than you realized.”

 

“I’m fine, just, what did you say happened to my clothes?” Will snapped, only to flinch at his own tone of voice. He was starting to feel like a caged animal, his mind flickering between the image of Lecter’s patient face and his father’s disapproving glares.

 

“I said that you were drenched to the bone when I found you last night, and in order to help your body gain some highly needed heat, I helped you out of them when we returned here. I have washed them for you, and they’re currently in the dryer now. They should be ready in a couple of minutes.” Lecter’s accent tilted the words, making it easier to focus on it, and Will found himself unconsciously twisting towards it with all of his being, “Now I would advise you to get back into bed for the time being, and do try to eat something. It will help with the lingering effects of the alcohol.”

 

Will was moving before he was conscious about it, his legs already walking towards the bed, and climbing into it, before the action was processed by his brain. When he was rewarded by a slight upturn of Lecter’s lips, he couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading within his chest. Maybe he actually  _ was  _ damaged by his actions last night? When Lecter indicated towards the tray, Will lifted it into his lap, and stared at the display on it. The plate was fixed dead center on the tray, with a fork and a knife folded skillfully into a napkin on the right side, and the coffee cup placed a thumbs width above them, and a glass of water a thumbs width to the coffee’s left. Picking up the fork from it’s intricate prison, Will tried to reconcile the information he had on Hannibal Lecter from his file with the information he gained from this. Generosity wasn’t something mentioned in the file, but the perfectionistic tendencies displayed by the tray certainly was. Balancing a forkful of eggs and sausage, Will couldn’t contain the small whimper that escaped him when the taste of it erupted across his tongue.

 

With a small nodd in his direction, Lecter took measured steps towards the leather chair, bringing it up to the bed with a surprising amount of ease. Taking his seat, he merely watched Will eat, his face blank, but his eyes filled with something strangely like curiosity.

 

“William, was it?” He asked.

The food turned to ash in his mouth. How did Lecter know his name? How much  _ did  _ he know? Will tried to search his memory of the night before, but it was all a haze, like he was looking through fogged glass, only finding the lingering taste of cheap whiskey and cold, a painful cold. He had to try and swallow his food twice, watching Lecter sitting in his chair with the appearance of someone without a care in the world - his legs crossed at the knees, fingers idly plucking imaginary lint from his pants.

 

“Will, please,” Will said, eyes tracking the shape of Lecter’s mouth, “And thank you, for the meal. And for letting me stay here, although I’m not quite sure as to why exactly you decided to bring me in?” 

 

If Will hadn’t been watching Lecter so closely, he didn’t think he would have seen the barely there confused twist of his lips, or the small tick of his jaw.

 

“It wouldn’t have been very polite of me to let you freeze to death on New Year’s eve, would it?” Lecter asked, though his tone gave Will the impression that he was not expecting, nor wishing, an answer, “I can assure you that my intentions were nothing but pure. Now, finish your meal before it gets cold, berniukas.”

 

The lithuanian word tickled a bell in Will’s memory, but he pushed it aside - he’d probably just heard Dalia or Tina use it sometime, his brain cataloguing it for some strange reason. Picking up his fork once more, Will concentrate on his food, trying to figure out Lecter’s game plan here. What good would it come of rescuing Will? What game was he playing? When no explicit ulterior motive presented itself, Will wrote a note behind his ear to go back to it when he, at some point, got back to his own apartment, with a locked door between him and one of the most notorious mob bosses in the country. Lecter, it seemed, was completely unaware of the rapidly more panicked monologue within Will’s mind, as he kept a light one-sided conversation going, telling Will about the weather (it was still snowing), about the fireworks from last night (they were beautiful) and about some major news story about a moose somehow venturing into a grocery store. By the time all the food, and the most delicious coffee Will had ever tasted, was gone from his tray, a comfortable silence had settled between them.

 

“I shall fetch you your clothes,” Lecter said, standing slowly, “and I’ll have my driver drive you wherever you wish.”

 

With those words he left the room, and Will still seated in the bed, a confused headache beginning to throb in his temples. Only a couple of minutes later, Lecter returned with his clothes, folded precisely in his arms, and informed him that the driver would be waiting outside the room when Will was ready, before, once more, leaving Will behind.

 

It wasn’t until Will was seated in the back seat of a beautiful black Bentley that he realized he’d forgotten to thank Lecter for his hospitality - something he was sure had his father turning in his grave.

 

“Oh well,” Will muttered to himself, “if all goes to the plan, I’m sure there will be a next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me at [Tumblr](http://www.cute-as-hale.tumblr.com), or come play with me (and a bunch of other awesome people) in [Fandom Hell](https://discord.gg/dKYEbyK).

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [Tumblr ](http://www.cute-as-hale.tumblr.com)(prompts open) and/or come play with me in [Hell](https://discord.gg/eD3dq49).  Comments and kudos activate my praise kink.    
> 
>  
> 
> "Berniukas" - Boy  
>  "Saldainiukas" - Sweetie/Honey


End file.
